


in many-pillared halls of stone

by baggvinshield



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Death, Alternate Universe - Dark, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Asexual Relationship, Canonical Character Death, Dark, Dragon Sickness, Gold Sickness, How do I tag their relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Violence, No Sex, Non-Canonical Character Death, Paranoia, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Sharing a Bed, very dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 14:49:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4267419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baggvinshield/pseuds/baggvinshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin survives the battle, but loses the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in many-pillared halls of stone

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first fic I started writing after I saw botfa back in December. I wanted to write a fic that would take a Thorin-survives AU to the saddest conclusion I could imagine, in the hopes that the canon events of the film would actually look like a happy ending in comparison, but I struggled with these dark themes and where I ultimately wanted to take it. A few weeks ago I was talking to Tony (anonymoussong) and he suggested telling the story from Thorin's perspective rather than Bilbo's. Everything clicked, and I've been writing this and crying for weeks now.
> 
> PLEASE BE WARNED - This fic is dark; it could be depressing and/or disturbing, and there is no happy ending. Note the tags. Please don't read if it's not your thing.
> 
> THINGS YOU WON'T FIND HERE, HOWEVER: rape, non-con, dub-con, sexual relations of any kind. 
> 
> The title is taken from the Song of Durin. Credit to Tolkien where it's due.
> 
> This fic is dedicated to anonymoussong, who is a terrible enabler, and acornshields (over on tumblr).
> 
> This fic is not beta'd. All mistakes are my own.

 

* * *

 

 

_After:_

 

In a vast, tall chamber beneath Erebor, deep within the heart of the mountain, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, prepares to address his most cherished friend. They are alone in the great room, just the two of them amongst the shadows of the pillars.

 

The King is dressed in the armor of his grandfather, the large crown of gold and obsidian heavy on his brow; but Thorin feels truly content for the first time since reclaiming the mountain and taking the throne.

 

“Master Baggins,” Thorin says, a crooked smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I wish to express to you my gratitude for your continued presence in Erebor.” He speaks with a grandiose unnecessary in the unpopulated space. The torch light dances in the pale blue of the king’s eyes, and reflects on his face with a golden sheen.

 

“Know that you are precious to me, and that you will always have the protection of the King Under the Mountain.” He smiles broadly now, a receding echo of previous smiles bestowed upon his friend.

 

Silence reigns again in the large room, but Thorin makes no move to leave, his form as dark and solid as the many pillars there; his presence as foreboding as their shadows.

 

***

 

 

 

_Before:_

 

 

Thorin fought to open his eyes. A weariness unlike anything he had ever experienced before tugged at him, but he pulled himself from sleep nonetheless. Blinking through bleariness, he saw first the green-grey cloth above him. He heard the wind, and a rustling noise as of fabric caught in it. The noise drew his attention to his right, and he saw the tent flaps billowing.

 

The battlefield, then; a tent for the wounded.

 

Not dead it seems. But when he gingerly attempted to move his arms, the ache in his muscles flared up.

 

Thorin lay still once more, and tried to concentrate on what he remembered.

 

Raven Hill. Azog. The ice. Bilbo.

 

Bilbo. Thorin’s breath quickened as he recalled his last conversation with the hobbit - indeed, what he believed at the time would be the last conversation he would ever have with him or anyone - and swallowed against the dryness in his throat.

 

As if in answer to his thoughts, the cot to his left stirred, and Thorin weakly turned his head in the direction of the sound.

  
There on a low cot beside him lay the sleeping form of Bilbo Baggins, curled on his side facing Thorin, a bloodied bandage wrapped around his head and his dirty hair sticking out of it.

 

Thorin stared at him for a long time - how long, he wouldn’t be able to say - and his gaze was drawn back time and again to the covered wound. He had thought his life was finished, had wondered at his great fortune at being given a chance to see Bilbo again, to apologize for all his folly and beg his forgiveness in the end.

 

And true to his nature, Bilbo had surprised Thorin with his earnest assertion that he was glad (of all things) to have been a part of Thorin’s perils. There on the brink of death, the dwarf was humbled by the hobbit’s affection for him; though he’d known nothing of love but what he’d felt for his family and heard sung about, Thorin recognized what he saw in Bilbo’s eyes, what he felt in his own heart.

 

To have had all that, and to have survived in the end… Thorin was tempted for a moment to consider himself lucky. Looking at Bilbo then, sleeping deeply and peacefully as one who had long needed an easy rest, he was sorely tempted indeed to consider them both lucky.

 

But a niggling feeling pricked at him, and he heard clearly his own voice from the depths of Mirkwood: I don’t believe in luck.

 

Oin came bustling into the tent, followed by two unknown dwarves of Dain’s company and Dwalin, looking hollowed out and uneasy, but then sagging in relief when his eyes met Thorin’s.

 

“You’re awake!” Oin exclaimed.

 

“Shh,” Thorin replied, the small sound a struggle against his parched mouth and scratchy throat. He tilted his head in Bilbo’s direction to indicate the sleeping hobbit, and Oin nodded dutifully.

 

“It’s good to see you awake,” Dwalin said quietly, but his smile was false. Thorin tried to offer one of his own, but couldn’t quite manage it in the face of the question he needed to ask, and didn’t want to.

 

“Fili, Kili?”  
  


Dwalin’s face crumpled.

 

Thorin nodded sharply, clenched his hands into fists until he felt the stab of his short nails in his palms.

 

He turned to look again at the sleeping hobbit beside him.

 

“I’m sorry, Thorin.”

 

But Thorin wasn’t paying attention to Dwalin’s wrecked voice.

 

Bilbo slept on, and Thorin fought against a desire to smooth away the frown lines in his forehead, to brush back his bloodied curls, to remove the bandage and examine the headwound for himself.

 

Never again, he vowed silently.

 

It was a vow no one needed to hear, a promise kept close in his chest where his desire to reclaim the mountain used to be; it needed no public proclamation or grand gestures, only Thorin’s steadfast devotion. Whatever authority being king might afford him, Thorin would use it to see that Bilbo Baggins was safe from peril.

 

When Oin’s hands began to work on cleaning the gaping wound in Thorin’s left side, he welcomed the engulfing pain and the relief of unconsciousness as it swept over him.

 

***

 

The second time he woke, it was dark in the tent. For a moment he thought perhaps he’d somehow gone blind, but his eyes quickly adjusted and he could see that the interior of the tent was lit by the faint glow of a small oil lamp, likely taken from the mountain. The steady light from the lamp was golden on the walls of the tent, and Thorin stared, drowsy and transfixed.

 

“You’re awake,” said Bilbo Baggins, and Thorin’s head snapped in his direction as if he’d been woken with a start. Bilbo was seated on the edge of Thorin’s cot, and greeted him with a small, warm smile.

 

“So it seems,” Thorin replied hoarsely.

 

“You’re thirsty.” Bilbo helped him drink from a cup, his hand cradling the back of Thorin’s head.

They sat in companionable silence for some time, Thorin feeling as though he were drifting between sleep and wakefulness. Eventually Bilbo’s hand found his where it lay atop the sheets, and he squeezed Thorin’s fingers.

 

Thorin turned his head towards Bilbo again. “My nephews,” he said. He couldn’t say more; didn’t need to. He watched Bilbo’s throat work, watched his profile and saw the way his jaw ticked. The lamp light reflected golden in the wet sheen of Bilbo’s eyes.

 

“They’re gone, Thorin,” Bilbo said after a time.

 

The dwarf looked away from Bilbo’s grief and whispered, “I know.” With his face turned away from the light, he wept.

 

***

 

Thorin’s second return to Erebor felt even less triumphant than his first.

 

Limping and ridden with grief he couldn’t afford to let show, he ascended to the throne and, before the Company and Dain’s dwarves and Bilbo Baggins, he took back his grandfather’s crown. Perhaps only he noticed the bent tip of one dark, golden raven wing, as Dain lifted the crown above his head and uttered the traditional words.

 

The crown sank into his hair -  had it fit so poorly, before? It settled upon Thorin’s brow with finality, and Thorin tried not to think what blood it had cost him.

 

***

 

The funeral rites of Fili and Kili were as grand as any befitting princes of Erebor. Thorin presided over the ceremony as king, wearing armor from the treasury that helped keep his posture straight against the pain in his healing wounds. His eyes were dry, and the rehearsed words of his speech never wavered; though when the singing began he found he had no voice for it, and could only mouth the lyrics as though chewing cotton.

 

The bodies of his nephews were clean and dressed in Erebor’s finery; their hair brushed and braided and arranged neatly around their calm features. All traces of hurt removed, Thorin thought they should have looked like they were sleeping. But he had seen them sleep, had watched them sleep when they were small children half a world away, and they never were so still in sleep before.

 

When the stone lids of the sarcophagi were dragged shut, Thorin felt the echo of stone-on-stone in his chest and stepped haltingly back, as though struck.

 

Bilbo wore the mithril vest over his clean white shirt, the old waistcoat having no place at a royal funeral. Thorin found that his eyes were eventually drawn away from the stone sarcophagi housing the bodies of his dead nephews to the gleam of the white silver-steel illuminated by the somber yellow torchlight.

 

In the odd spaces between the light and the shadows, the shine of the mithril flashed golden and bright.

 

Later, after the remaining members of the Company, Gandalf, and Dain and his dwarves in attendance had cleared the burial chambers, only Thorin and Bilbo remained. They stood side by side, a shoulder’s width apart, facing the sarcophagi.

 

“I don’t think I can cry anymore,” Bilbo’s hard voice broke the deathly silence. “Not because I don’t want to, but because I feel… spent, somehow.”

 

Thorin understood him in ways he could never explain to the hobbit.

 

“But I am here for you, Thorin,” Bilbo went on, and he turned to face the dwarf, looking bravely up at him. “And I am so glad you’re still here. Even if, they, even if…”

 

Thorin let out a shaking breath. “He would have been a better king than I am.” He avoided looking at Bilbo’s eyes. “And his brother would have supported him, and together they would have led a great kingdom, and restored the glory of the line of Durin.”

 

He sagged in his armor as if deflated. Having spoken the words he wanted to say before all, the words this burial deserved, he had nothing left to say.

 

But Bilbo grabbed at his hand, and held it securely between both his own, forcing Thorin to look at him. “Hush,” said the hobbit. “You’re going to be a great king, Thorin,” and Bilbo spoke with such urgency that Thorin was reminded of snow and a frozen river and warmth bleeding out of him.

 

He noted, however, Bilbo’s use of the future tense rather than the present.

 

***

 

Thorin wandered the vacant corridors of his lost home, walked the narrow stone bridges, climbed doggedly over rubble and had to stop to catch his breath. The wound pained him. He suspected it always would. He doubled back over his course, took a new path leading upwards, then downwards, with no destination in mind.

 

He tried not to think that he should have died that day, tried not to wonder if there was a power he could have treated with, a bargain he could have struck: his life for both of theirs.

 

But he knew it could never have worked that way - each of his nephews alone were worth more than two of him. No great being could be that much of a fool.

 

“There you are.”

 

Bilbo looked troubled, but he smiled anyway, and Thorin tried to smile back.

 

“Bilbo,” he greeted, “you shouldn’t be down here. It’s not safe.” You should be safe.

 

“And yet you’re here,” Bilbo tutted, “and everyone else is asleep. You should get some rest, Thorin.”

 

He allowed himself to be led away by the arm.

 

It was only later, curled on their makeshift bed in one of the cleared rooms of the first hall, that he realized Bilbo had found him outside the walls of the sealed treasury, where the dragon had slept.

 

***

 

“The royal chambers will be ready for habitation come tomorrow evening,” Balin reported with a smile. Outside of the mountain, the sun was setting, burning the sky yet taking all the day’s warmth with it. The front gates had been repaired, properly this time, and Thorin was grateful to stand atop them on different stones than he’d stood upon on the day he'd turned to Bilbo and...

 

“Which rooms?” Thorin asked.

 

Balin’s smile faltered. “Your father’s old quarters in the palace have been cleared for you, as you asked. And all the guest rooms made ready for other members of the Company, until permanent residences can be restored.”

 

“You take my father’s quarters,” Thorin said, “and for me, have the workers clear the quarters of the King. My grandmother’s old rooms adjoin them; Bilbo is to be given those.” Where he’ll be safe.

 

Balin frowned openly now, looking up at Thorin with a furrowed brow. “I thought you didn’t want those rooms. Your grandfather’s rooms are, as you know lad, adorned in gold.”

 

The king picked grit out of a crack in a stone on the wall. He smiled grimly. “What is gold to me, Balin, but cold stone set in cold stone?” It held no sway over he who had defeated the sickness, not when the only gold Thorin thought should ever have mattered had been in his nephews' hearts.

 

If Balin wondered why Thorin never visited the treasury to look upon the gold after the battle, Thorin thought this would have been the time he’d ask. But he didn’t. A small part of Thorin was glad, and could admit that he didn’t know how he would answer, except perhaps to say that he wanted to.

 

He very much wanted to.

 

***

 

Some nights he slept alone in his own rooms, and other nights he went to Bilbo, and sometimes Bilbo came to him. They lay side by side in the darkness, and sometimes he spoke of his nephews. Bilbo would clasp his hand as he talked. Sometimes Thorin wept. Sometimes Bilbo curled against him, laid his head in the crook of Thorin’s shoulder and breathed against his neck. Sometimes Bilbo would push against Thorin until Thorin laid his head on Bilbo’s chest, and Thorin would stay awake long after Bilbo had drifted to sleep, hearing and feeling the steady rapid heartbeat against his ear.

 

When Thorin dreamed of the gold, it was better when Bilbo was there. He would wake cold, and sweaty; but if Bilbo was there, he could shuck his tunic and press against Bilbo’s warm body, push his face into soft curls, remind himself that he had Bilbo, that Bilbo might stay, that Thorin had sworn to protect him, that he could keep Bilbo safe in Erebor.

 

_Throw him from-_

 

White hot guilt burned Thorin’s gut when he remembered other words, so he concentrated instead on _I swear to protect you, by my life, by my death,_ and so on, and tried to sleep.

 

***

 

As winter steadfastly approached the mountain, dwarves were still arriving daily from Ered Luin and other, smaller settlements in the west. Some came with large caravans, some traveled in tight-knit groups of only ten or less. Preparations for winter and repairs to the infrastructure of Erebor began in earnest, and still the dwarves continued to arrive, even after the first real snowfall coated the land in whiteness and did not melt away.

 

Thorin knew he should feel grateful for their willingness to work, for their hardiness and loyalty to their kind, their awe at the beauty of Erebor even in her half-ruined state. But he thought of extra mouths to feed instead. In the darkness of his own thoughts, known only to himself and not even to Bilbo Baggins, he thought of the wages that would need to be paid. He remembered the reports given to him while he lay on his sickbed, Balin reassuring him that even as they spoke, members of the Company were carting gold and riches out of the mountain and delivering them to Bard and the Laketown survivors.

 

He was glad of it then; he wondered later when that feeling changed to resentment. But he didn’t wonder for long - after all, what had Bard done but take advantage of his weakened condition, his grief. The man had gotten what he wanted, and that was that.

 

“If I had it to do again,” Thorin told Bilbo one evening as they sat in their chairs before the fire, alone in their adjoined chambers, “I would have only given him half. Half then, half later, in exchange for food.”

 

Bilbo was unusually quiet for some moments, and when Thorin turned to look at him he found that Bilbo was studying him intently. Thorin shifted uneasily. “It’s likely that having so much gold all at once will have flooded the market,” Thorin explained. “Thranduil and their other suppliers can now charge more for basic supplies, which will in turn drive down the value of a single coin.”

 

Bilbo blinked, and took a sip from his cup of tea. “But that’s not happening to Erebor,” he said lightly, “at least, not that you’ve told me. And there is far more gold here than in Dale.”

 

Thorin smiled. “But we are dwarves,” he said playfully, “and know how to bargain and trade, and protect our own interests. Have I never told you, you shouldn’t underestimate dwarves?”

 

Bilbo swallowed a large mouthful of tea, but said nothing.

 

***

 

There were days when Thorin could not remember what it had been like when he first entered the mountain through the secret door. His memories were hazy for what seemed like long stretches of time. Other events he remembered strangely, as though he had been blinking very rapidly but hadn’t been able to clear his vision - like his meeting with Bard at the wall, and searching the gold hoard, and giving the mithril shirt to Bilbo. Yet he could remember racing down the long, narrow pathway after Bilbo had gone down to face the dragon alone; he just couldn’t remember what had delayed him following in the first place.

 

He sat up some nights, hours after Bilbo had retired to bed, and watched the light of the fire dance on the walls of the great hall of his chambers. Winter was fully upon them, and Bilbo had decided to stay until at least spring. Thorin hoped he could convince him to stay longer, perhaps forever. The mountain was safe, Erebor was safe, and Bilbo could have been killed on the battlefield, or in Dale, or on Ravenhill, like Kili, like Fili, perhaps if they all had just stayed in the mountain, maybe if he hadn’t-

 

Thorin took a deep, steadying breath, banishing those thoughts from his mind. He focused instead on the flickering light catching in the golden embellishments on his walls.

 

***

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Thorin looked up from the report he was reading, a status update on the repairs to the lower mines. Bilbo was dressed in a fine dark blue tunic, dwarfish in design; Thorin thought perhaps it might have been a child’s once, now tailored to fit a hobbit who was chief councilor to a king.

 

“I’m fine,” Thorin answered. “Buried beneath piles of paperwork, but otherwise fine. Why do you ask?”

 

“I don’t mean just right now,” Bilbo replied, “I mean… in general. Day-to-day. How are you holding up?”

 

Thorin smiled, warmed by Bilbo’s concern. “You worry for me.”

 

“Yes I do, and I want to help.”

 

Thorin studied him for a long moment, taking in the steel set of Bilbo’s jaw (he once thought it so soft and yielding) and the open determination in his eyes. Thorin nodded his head towards one of the other chairs at the table, and Bilbo moved to sit. The king pulled a bound sheath of papers from one of the stacks, and slid it over to Bilbo.

 

“From the Miners Guild,” Thorin explained, “a report on what repair work has been completed, and what still needs finishing. I trust you can gauge the importance of their claims as easily as I can - prioritize them?”

 

Bilbo nodded, already flipping through the document. “I can give you a summary, I suppose,” he said distractedly.

 

Thorin waved a hand. “Read it and tell me what you would do,” the king said instead, “after all, Bilbo, you have as much claim to Erebor as any of us. I trust your judgement.”

 

 _You have no claim over me._ He hoped that by now, Bilbo knew those words to be the helpless lie they were.

 

The two read quietly for some time, the only sound in the room the rustle of pages turning.

 

“Thorin,” Bilbo said eventually, quietly, and Thorin looked up to again find Bilbo studying him intently. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

 

The king considered his answer. He thought about Balin, and his obvious concern about Thorin’s choice to live in his grandfather’s old rooms. He remembered the night Bilbo found him outside the treasury, and Thorin with next to no knowledge as to how he had gotten there. Obviously they all worried he would once again fall sway to the madness that had plagued his line. He thought of his nephews, and he thought about Bilbo. And he suspected that the other members of the Company must be questioning Bilbo, giving him cause for concern; that notion sat in Thorin’s belly like bad meat, and he thought he ought to look into it.

 

He said none of this to Bilbo. Instead:

 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

***

 

The dreams didn't stop. Gradually, Thorin spent less time in Bilbo's rooms at night, and more time walking the long hallways of his kingdom.

 

Sometimes he stayed in his own quarters, sat by the great hearth, kept a fire stoked until dawn. On these nights he struggled, at times, to tell the difference between sleep and wakefulness; it seemed his dreams were there whether he slept or not.

 

He told no one.

 

Nor did he speak of the itch he felt in the palms of his hands, the restlessness in his limbs, the ache in his head.

 

 _You have the mountain,_ he told himself.  _And Bilbo is here. It is enough._

 

It wasn't enough.

 

***

 

The first time Thorin returned to the treasury, to the gold hoard, he went alone. He went at night, he brought no torch, and he walked softly.

 

He meant to prove to himself that it didn’t matter anymore, that though in his dreams he saw the gold, glittering and heaped and surrounding him, riches beyond measure, these were just dreams, and in the waking world he was Thorin, King Under the Mountain, and he was sane.

 

He spent very little time considering why it was, then, that he was sneaking into his own treasury.

 

Thorin didn’t know how long he stayed there, walking amongst the gold, examining this trinket and that, staring; he lost track of time. A sound behind him caught his attention, footsteps in the piles of coin, disturbing it, and he turned, and there was Dwalin with a torch, though it wasn’t necessary - the treasury was well-lit by lamps.

 

“Thorin? What're you doing?”

 

Instinctively he took a defensive stance, feeling as if he’d been caught doing something wrong while simultaneously feeling like he was being wrongly accused.

 

“Thorin?”

 

“Does the King need a reason to walk in his kingdom?” 

 

“No,” Dwalin said carefully, squaring his shoulders, “does the King’s Guard need a reason to follow his king? It’s the middle of the second watch. Why are you here?”

 

Thorin snarled. “What business is it of yours?” He strode past Dwalin, who turned to watch him pass, his face unreadable.

 

“Thorin! What’s wrong?”

 

“Why do you question me!” Thorin whirled around to face him again.

 

Dwalin looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Something isn’t right,” he said quietly, “Bilbo is worried-”

 

“Bilbo!” Thorin’s sudden anger left him nearly breathless. “Bilbo! If Bilbo is worried, perhaps it is because others are making him so! What ideas are you putting in his head? Do you doubt your king?”

 

Dwalin was silent, as was the great golden chamber, and after a moment Thorin heard heavy breathing and realized it was his own. He struggled to reign himself in.

 

“Bilbo Baggins has had enough trouble on my account,” he grated, “so take care not to fill his head with needless concern over me. Such talk could be considered treason; you’d do well to remember that.”

 

Thorin turned and clamored over the piles of gold, intent on leaving the treasury. Dwalin said nothing, and if he followed, Thorin didn’t hear his footsteps.

 

***

 

Balin and Bofur were up to something.

 

“I’m only suggesting that it doesn’t need to be displayed on the throne as it was before,” Bofur was saying. “Your people are loyal to you, Thorin. They don’t need to see the Arkenstone to stay loyal.”

 

“It is the king’s jewel,” Thorin said tiredly, and folded his arms across his chest.

 

“Even so,” Balin pressed on, “that stone has caused Erebor and the line of Durin nothing but trouble, and I’m only suggesting-”

 

“It is _the king’s jewel_ ,” Thorin repeated, “and the people expect to see it set in the king’s throne. Or would you have me toss it into the deeps, along with all of the gold?”

 

Balin held Thorin’s gaze for a moment, then lowered his eyes. “No, Your Majesty.”

 

The king said nothing, and silence stretched between the three dwarves.

 

“I’ll tell the stone workers, then,” Bofur said after a time. “We were only waiting on your orders.”

 

Thorin saw the look that passed between Balin and Bofur, and felt his hackles rise. “And now you have them. See to it that they are delivered.”

 

Long after Balin and Bofur departed the king’s chambers, Thorin sat in thought. They doubted him, that much was clear. But there was something else there. Something.

 

***

 

Spring came to the Lonely Mountain, and with it a surge of activity in Erebor and Dale. Thorin looked out from a high balcony in the mountain on the valley below, and turned at the soft sound of padded footsteps on stone behind him.

 

“Master Baggins,” he greeted warmly, but thought, _this is when he tells me he is leaving_.

 

“Hullo, Thorin,” Bilbo smiled and came to stand beside him. “Your land is lovely in spring time. I’m glad to have stayed long enough to see it.”

 

Thorin hummed noncommittally and nodded.

 

“I expect it’s lovely here in the summer as well.” Bilbo spoke casually. Thorin felt his heart pounding in his chest.

 

“You mean to stay, then?” He hadn’t meant to say that.

 

Bilbo smiled again, and Thorin thought that it looked a bit sad, despite the bright sunshine and warmer weather. “I’d like to stay until you’re… recovered, fully. If I may?”

 

“Recovered?” Thorin didn’t mean to scoff at him. “I am well, Bilbo. And of course you’re welcome in Erebor, for as long,” he took a breath, “as long as you’d like to stay. You’ll be safe here.”

 

Thorin tried to ignore Bilbo’s furrowed brow. “Of course I’ll be safe. Why wouldn’t I be safe?” Bilbo shook his head, grin lopsided. “Thorin?”

 

But Thorin felt uneasy, uncomfortable; perhaps he was overtired, after not sleeping well for so many nights. He shifted, turned away, spoke under his breath. “I only meant that Erebor is yours for as long as you wish it to be.”

 

Bilbo stared at him for a long moment, then reached out and laid a small hand on his arm. “You must let me help you,” he said quietly.

 

The king looked down into the valley, looked out to the walls of Dale, the grey stone catching the morning light and gleaming. He felt ill; he felt exposed; Erebor was a safe haven, deep under the mountain, behind rock, he should go back inside, he should go to the-

 

“Thorin?”

 

He started. “I am well,” he repeated.

 

“You are tired. Come inside.”

 

Thorin followed him back through the doorway, back into the cool mountain air and out of the sun, and breathed a sigh of relief against his will as he felt the stone of the mountain enclose him in her embrace once more.

  


***

 

Two days out of every seven, Thorin held open court. It was a tradition dating back to the earlier times of Thror’s reign, the golden years of prosper and plenty, before the Arkenstone was discovered, before the dragon came.

 

He was beginning to loathe the tradition.

 

The Miners Guild demanded more funds for the extra work needed in repairing the lower levels. The Kitchens demanded more funds to purchase goods from the elves and from the remnants of the Laketown traders. The Stone-Workers Guild demanded better wages. The newly-reformed Jewelers Guild demanded a higher percentage of profits be paid to their own purses.

 

And not one of them understood Thorin’s concerns. The gold in the mountain was vast, but limited. It would not last forever. It was all they had. It was hard-won, bled for, his nephews’ lives paid for it, and these dwarves wanted to see more of it spent, given to elves and men, paid out to increase their own personal wealth? Where were they when he called for aid, when he decided to reclaim the mountain?

 

Where were they when Bilbo Baggins went down into the dark to face a dragon alone, when Erebor’s princes and heirs spent their lifeblood on Ravenhill?

 

Thorin stalked out of the throne room in a near-rage. He paid no heed to Balin’s voice calling out behind him, didn’t spare a glance at Bilbo’s pity or Dwalin’s bent head.

 

He went to the treasury. He would count it all, find out how much was left, what he could spare, what he could keep. Later he would ask Bilbo to join him. Later.

 

In the treasury he felt warm. He felt whole.

 

***

 

Days passed. Thorin knew this because Bilbo mentioned it - good, wise, kind Bilbo, trustworthy Bilbo, who hadn't left yet. He came to the treasury sometimes. Thorin wished he would stay.

 

***

 

His body was tingling with something akin to battle-lust. Unbound energy seemed to course through him. The glow of the treasure bathed him, warmed him. It was so bright, so beautiful-

 

Footsteps.

 

Thorin turned, and there was Balin and Dwalin, approaching slowly.

 

“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” Balin said cheerfully. Thorin didn’t trust his smile. “Will there be no open court today?”

 

Insolence.

 

“There will be no more opportunities for the people of Erebor to make absurd demands of their king, if that is what you mean.”

 

Balin nodded. Dwalin stared over Thorin’s shoulder, face a mask. “And will the King be making appearances at all today?” Balin went on. “Or this week, perhaps?”

 

Insubordination.

 

“I am occupied.”

 

“Yes, I understand that.”

 

Falsehoods.

 

“But King Bard,” Balin was still speaking, “has sent a message. Dale awaits payment for the grain and meats.”

 

Thorin said nothing. There was a golden chalice to the right of Dwalin’s foot where he stood on the stone floor. It seemed out of place.

 

“Your Majesty,” Dwalin said tonelessly, “what answer will Erebor give Dale?”

 

Thorin jerked as if struck. “My answer?” He laughed. “The Dragon-Slayer expects payment?”

 

The brothers stood stock-still. Thorin began to close the distance between himself and them.

 

“You may tell King Bard,” he sneered, “that payment for the food has already been made - in the form of Dwarf labor that rebuilt his walls and repaired his homes. Indeed, the very home he keeps for himself. You may tell him, no further payment will be made.”

 

Balin looked desperate; Thorin paid no heed.

 

“Now get out,” the king snarled.

 

Dwalin started, “Thorin-”

 

“Do not address me in such a manner!” His voiced echoed in the chamber. “I am your King!”

 

Thorin struggled to breathe. If only they would leave, if only-

 

“Guards!” He shouted, and made for the great doors, Balin and Dwalin first stepping aside, then turning to follow hesitantly.

 

The two dwarves stationed as guards at the open entryway to the treasury came forth, and stood at attention.

 

“I have orders for you,” Thorin said. “No one is to enter the treasury, aside from myself and Master Baggins. See to it that these doors are locked.” He turned to Balin and Dwalin. “Get out,” he croaked. He didn’t watch their retreat.

 

After a time, Thorin reluctantly left the treasure hall himself, for he needed to ensure that the doors were locked securely. The guards, after all, could not be trusted to do it.

 

“Guard these doors with your lives,” he ordered as he walked past them.

 

***

 

“The others are worried for you.”

 

Thorin looked up from the throne room floor to find Bilbo standing not ten paces before him. The hobbit wasn’t wearing his mithril, he hadn’t worn it in a long time.

 

“Thorin?”

 

His limbs felt heavy. He stayed seated. “I think we should move the gold further underground.” He wondered who he could assign such a task to, who could he trust, who left among them would not steal, would not-

 

“When was the last time you ate something?”

 

Thorin looked at him coolly. “They will try to take it from us.”

 

Bilbo was talking, but Thorin didn’t know what he was saying. Why wouldn’t he listen to reason?

 

“They seek to dethrone us.”

 

The hobbit stepped closer. “Us? Thorin, they worry for you, especially Balin and Dwalin. You’re sick. You need to leave the mountain, you need to-”

 

“It will start with them,” Thorin said quietly. “You must not trust them.” He met Bilbo’s gaze, and found there alarm, and pity, and sorrow. “They want to corrupt you against me.”

 

Thorin slammed his fist against the stone arm of the throne in a sudden rage, unknowingly startling the hobbit back a step. “Why can you not see it!”

 

Bilbo shook his head, stepped closer again, fingers tugging at the hem of his tunic. “Thorin,” he said softly, “we need to leave the mountain. You must trust me.”

 

Grief. It filled Thorin’s chest to bursting, burned at his eyes, constricted his throat. If Bilbo was lost to him… no, he must keep Bilbo safe, and keep their gold safe. He couldn’t save his nephews, but he was King, he could save Bilbo.

 

“We mustn’t leave the mountain,” the king hissed, “we’re safe here. You’re safe here. You must not leave.”

 

Thorin locked gazes with the hobbit, and he saw again Bilbo’s bloodied and bandaged head, his hair sticky with dried blood, a blow from an orc that could have killed him, he could have been dead, dead with Fili, and Kili... he had to look away.

 

He heard a choked sound, breath caught on a sob. He ignored it.

 

“We’ll have to move the gold ourselves. There is no one we can trust now. And we must stay in the mountain - where it’s safe.” The king settled back into the throne, armor clinking, the Arkenstone bathing his bare hands in a pale light. He moved his fingers through it, watching as it slid over his skin.

 

The sound of Bilbo’s hurried footsteps echoed up and around the chamber, down into the abyss below. If Thorin had ever heard him walk so loudly before, he could not now remember it.

 

***

 

Thorin approached Bilbo’s chambers. He had looked for him in the treasury, and he had not come. The door was open. Thorin stopped when he heard voices from within the rooms.

 

“-not doing him any good,” Bilbo said.

 

“It’ll be worse if you leave.” That was Dwalin. Thorin bristled.

 

“I can’t stay here. For all I know, it’s making him worse. He thinks I’m the only one he can trust, it’s just like before.”

 

“It’s worse than before, laddie.” Balin.

 

Silence.

 

“I think you should go.” Balin again. Thorin trembled with rage. He heard a sigh, it might have been Dwalin.

 

“Aye,” the traitor said quietly. “Perhaps you’re right. You should leave this place.”

 

“I’m sorry it’s come to this,” Bilbo said miserably. “But I have to leave, I have to try to find-”

 

Thorin could hear no more.

 

He turned back down the hall.

 

Bilbo was going to leave. The traitors had driven him out, usurped him from his rightful place.

 

Thorin bristled with rage, but not for Bilbo; he was blameless in this, being used as a tool by those who would see the Rightful King overthrown.

 

But the King Under the Mountain would set things to right. No one would leave Erebor without his knowing, or his blessing.

 

***

 

It happened in the throne room.

 

Bilbo was so angry. Angrier than Thorin had ever seen him. And he wouldn’t listen, he wouldn’t hear what Thorin said, he couldn’t understand what was really going on.

 

The king descended from the throne, stood on the narrow walkway over the deeps to face the hobbit, all but begged him to stay in the mountain. Bilbo demanded that the gates be opened for him, that the guards be stood down.

 

He didn’t understand, Bilbo couldn’t see it; he was safe in Erebor, Thorin could keep him safe, but he had to stay in Erebor.

 

“I must speak with Gandalf! Thorin, I must find him! Please, listen to me-”

 

“I swore to protect you, as I stood by their tombs, I swore it-”

 

“Gandalf was your friend, once; you trusted him-”

 

“He will betray us both, as the rest of them have, can’t you see it!” And Thorin reached for Bilbo, to put his hands on his shoulders as he had done many times before, but Bilbo’s eyes went wide, he stepped back, and back and back, and-

 

fell.

 

***

 

 

Thorin recovered the body himself. He sat on cold uneven stone with the hobbit’s limp form in his arms for a long time.

 

There was no funeral.

 

There was no loss to mourn. Bilbo would stay in the mountain.

 

***

  


Balin and Dwalin let him be after that. There was no more talk of court, no more questions about Thorin’s well-being.

 

When Balin asked, casually one day, as Thorin stalked towards the corridor that would lead him down, deep into the mountain, down to unused halls, great pillars, red lamps, a golden coffin - “Have you had any word from Bilbo? He said he would come back... do you know where he is, Your Majesty?”

 

Thorin answered honestly.

 

“He is safe.”

 

 

***

 

 

_After:_

 

 

“Master Baggins,” Thorin says, a crooked smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I wish to express to you my gratitude for your continued presence in Erebor. Know that you are precious to me, and that you will always have the protection of the King Under the Mountain.” He smiles broadly now, a poor facsimile of previous smiles bestowed upon his friend.

 

Silence reigns again in the large room, but Thorin makes no move to leave, his form as dark and solid as the many pillars there; his presence as foreboding as their shadows.

 

The small sarcophagus is gold, inlaid with mithril, set atop a pedestal of stone. The gold catches the lamp light. Thorin stares. Transfixed.

 

He doesn't hear the dozen soldiers descend upon him, led by Balin and Dwalin. He doesn't know, as he clumsily draws his sword, as he struggles against them all, that even as they fight to restrain him, the brothers are weeping.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is by far the darkest thing I've ever written. I doubt I'll ever write another dark fic. But if you made it this far, and enjoyed it, I'll be glad. I would love to know your thoughts on this fic, so please consider leaving a comment! <3
> 
> Also I offer free hugs over on [my tumblr](http://baggvinshield.tumblr.com), for anyone feeling a bit down after this.


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